07-03-2017, 07:34 PM
Mad Bull panted as he rose to his feet and touched gingerly at the black bruise Tearen had left across his jaw. His tongue rummaged within his cheeks before he spat out a phlegmy glob of blood; somewhere within that hunk of gore a gleaming white tooth could be found.
The baggy skin of Sergeant John Estes’ jowls were sallow and bloodless. The past 24 hours had been unkind to the burly cop and the sudden appearance into the coliseum had done nothing to improve his miserable situation.
Enel and Tearen had showcased an astonishing aerial display before rejoining Dane and Mad Bull in combat. The beat cop had worn a badge for 27 years, but he had to admit he had never quite seen anything like it. As the swordsman and Tearen traded blows and Enel began to recover, the burly officer retreated. The Sergeant was out of his element and running out of whatever guts and gusto was keeping him upright. It was evident that his opponents were losing steam themselves, leaving perhaps even these living gods beatable, but the hulking cop was just to battered to capitalize to the fullest. The clock was ticking on all the combatants, though Mad Bull had a sense that the time read only five minutes till midnight for the hard-nosed officer. With finality, he decided there was only one way left to try and tip the scales.
His hand reached for his leather utility belt and snapped off the last dangling metal grenade. White stencilled lettering on the side of the aluminum canister read, “TEAR GAS.”
The Sergeant hefted the grenade in his palm, pulled out the safety ring and rolled the can into the gathered coliseum fighters.
Fssssssh!
Snaking arms of choking gas hissed swiftly out the side of the canister. Like a great grey octopus spreading out its tentacles, the growing cloud was beginning to envelope the arena. Through the haze and bitter tears brought on by the gas, Dane and Tearen ceased their exchange of blows.
An unseen wind wafted the cloud ominously towards Dane and the maniac cop. The warrior raised his shield defensively and turned to face the policeman.
“What was...ack, garffh, ugrahhh..flekk…” Dane gagged. The armored man bent over, mailed arm hugging his chest, and retched. Though snot and tears rolled down his chin in messy gobs, years of training kept his shield in place, stalwartly guarding his head.
The gas bloomed like an ashen chrysanthemum around Mad Bull. The smell was cloying for the burly officer, but only a small dribble of snot in his bristling mustache suggested the gas was affecting him at all.
Within the stinking cloudy expanse of grey, MAD BULL 34 leveled his Smith & Wesson NY-1 revolver at Dane and pulled back the hammer. The warrior could hear the mechanism cock and roll the cylinder into the firing position, but the swordsman's chest only heaved again, his lungs spasming. Methodically, the wrathful lawman advanced forward, but the barrel of the gun quivered with each step.
The cop's face had a ghoulish pallor and his eyes seemed a thousand miles away. With a hateful scowl, he spoke to the other three fighters, to Karl, and every voyeuristic viewer watching from the safety of home. “I spent a lifetime breathin’ the same filthy air as pimps and guidos, sharin’ a lung-full 'a smoke puffin’ off fatcats’ cigars and smelt the stinkin’ sweat rollin’ off a workin’ class man’s back. You two-bit comicbook geeks think ya know a thing or two about fightin’ it out…”
Dane could only choke and continue retching while the lawman monologued. Enel and Tearen hunkered within the billowing clouds and tried to cover their mouths, but the gas was all enveloping in the tight confines of the coliseum and utterly inescapable.
Sergeant John Estes’ face had contorted into a mask of rage, and the ire, frustration and aspirations of the unwashed and forgotten masses of society seemed to emanate like a solid hateful aura from the advancing policeman.
“I seen more spine, more purpose and drive from rice eatin’ peasants dying on some lonely killing field in 'Nam. You feelin’ sick? Good!” he spat.
A wave of stomach churning vomit rolled through each of them and audible gags cut through the grey haze as if on queue.
“You all make ME sick, killin’ and smashin’ the teeth out of each other for fun.”
He brandished the heavy revolver, the anger of the ranting Mad Bull coalescing at its death-dealing end. “Here's to all the moms wastin’ away on a welfare check and babes hungry for a bottle while you costume clowns play Superman. Eat lead you bastards, and don't stop chewin’ till we see each other again in Hell!”
KAPOW!
KAPOW!
KAPOW!
KAPOW!
KAPOW!
KAPOW!
The baggy skin of Sergeant John Estes’ jowls were sallow and bloodless. The past 24 hours had been unkind to the burly cop and the sudden appearance into the coliseum had done nothing to improve his miserable situation.
Enel and Tearen had showcased an astonishing aerial display before rejoining Dane and Mad Bull in combat. The beat cop had worn a badge for 27 years, but he had to admit he had never quite seen anything like it. As the swordsman and Tearen traded blows and Enel began to recover, the burly officer retreated. The Sergeant was out of his element and running out of whatever guts and gusto was keeping him upright. It was evident that his opponents were losing steam themselves, leaving perhaps even these living gods beatable, but the hulking cop was just to battered to capitalize to the fullest. The clock was ticking on all the combatants, though Mad Bull had a sense that the time read only five minutes till midnight for the hard-nosed officer. With finality, he decided there was only one way left to try and tip the scales.
His hand reached for his leather utility belt and snapped off the last dangling metal grenade. White stencilled lettering on the side of the aluminum canister read, “TEAR GAS.”
The Sergeant hefted the grenade in his palm, pulled out the safety ring and rolled the can into the gathered coliseum fighters.
Fssssssh!
Snaking arms of choking gas hissed swiftly out the side of the canister. Like a great grey octopus spreading out its tentacles, the growing cloud was beginning to envelope the arena. Through the haze and bitter tears brought on by the gas, Dane and Tearen ceased their exchange of blows.
An unseen wind wafted the cloud ominously towards Dane and the maniac cop. The warrior raised his shield defensively and turned to face the policeman.
“What was...ack, garffh, ugrahhh..flekk…” Dane gagged. The armored man bent over, mailed arm hugging his chest, and retched. Though snot and tears rolled down his chin in messy gobs, years of training kept his shield in place, stalwartly guarding his head.
The gas bloomed like an ashen chrysanthemum around Mad Bull. The smell was cloying for the burly officer, but only a small dribble of snot in his bristling mustache suggested the gas was affecting him at all.
Within the stinking cloudy expanse of grey, MAD BULL 34 leveled his Smith & Wesson NY-1 revolver at Dane and pulled back the hammer. The warrior could hear the mechanism cock and roll the cylinder into the firing position, but the swordsman's chest only heaved again, his lungs spasming. Methodically, the wrathful lawman advanced forward, but the barrel of the gun quivered with each step.
The cop's face had a ghoulish pallor and his eyes seemed a thousand miles away. With a hateful scowl, he spoke to the other three fighters, to Karl, and every voyeuristic viewer watching from the safety of home. “I spent a lifetime breathin’ the same filthy air as pimps and guidos, sharin’ a lung-full 'a smoke puffin’ off fatcats’ cigars and smelt the stinkin’ sweat rollin’ off a workin’ class man’s back. You two-bit comicbook geeks think ya know a thing or two about fightin’ it out…”
Dane could only choke and continue retching while the lawman monologued. Enel and Tearen hunkered within the billowing clouds and tried to cover their mouths, but the gas was all enveloping in the tight confines of the coliseum and utterly inescapable.
Sergeant John Estes’ face had contorted into a mask of rage, and the ire, frustration and aspirations of the unwashed and forgotten masses of society seemed to emanate like a solid hateful aura from the advancing policeman.
“I seen more spine, more purpose and drive from rice eatin’ peasants dying on some lonely killing field in 'Nam. You feelin’ sick? Good!” he spat.
A wave of stomach churning vomit rolled through each of them and audible gags cut through the grey haze as if on queue.
“You all make ME sick, killin’ and smashin’ the teeth out of each other for fun.”
He brandished the heavy revolver, the anger of the ranting Mad Bull coalescing at its death-dealing end. “Here's to all the moms wastin’ away on a welfare check and babes hungry for a bottle while you costume clowns play Superman. Eat lead you bastards, and don't stop chewin’ till we see each other again in Hell!”
KAPOW!
KAPOW!
KAPOW!
KAPOW!
KAPOW!
KAPOW!
Quote:798/800
Mad Bull uses the last of his SP to use his Tear Gas super move (area attack + debuff proficiency), gets really angry, then fires off all six shots of his revolver in quick succession - two at Dane, two at Enel, two Tearen.
Character note: Mad Bull never reloads his revolver after going all out. He still has four shells in his pump action shotgun, nightstick and bare fists.